sometimes, it's morning. and i've forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. and that i don't believe in anything anymore. and that's when i realize that i'm losing little pieces of myself to you.
and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in reverse. or fast forward. and the next time you see me, i'll be older than i've ever been before. so press play. since i'm sick of being stuck on pause.
and some days, when i'm waiting for the earth to move again, i count every one of my eyelashes and measure the distance it would take for them to fall so i can calculate all the wishes i'm missing. and in a hundred and fifty one days, maybe i can wish that you never happened or maybe i can wish that you really did love me. and sometimes, i pray since i like the feel of your name in my mouth and the way that pretend tastes and the fact that maybe repeating something is enough to make it true. but the truth is this feeling is the exact opposite of believing.
and right now, i want to be twenty three minutes into forgetting you but instead i'm watching your lies change shape as i go backwards through my memories. i like to watch your carefully pronounced vowels wrap into endless loops where you and i become concentric circles since that's all we are. we'll never touch and we'll never go anywhere again.
but all i am are my words. and sometimes, they're not enough. and maybe i've wasted the last forty seven minutes trying to convince myself that "love" and "in love" are two very different concepts. maybe they're not. and maybe if they are, it doesn't matter. since maybe i say i'm not in love. but i'm a liar. the problem is so are you. you once told me, my heartbeat was your favorite song. well, broken hearts don't beat anyway.
Report a Policy Violation
the news article as well as check out the individual pieces. We understand that each day you may not be able to check out each and every one of the pieces, everyone has their own things going on. We just ask that you make an attempt to help support the growing Literature community.
Follow us on Twitter
Become a fan on Facebook
Comments
one thing: "everyone of my eyelashes"--i think that should be every one. XD
great job!!!
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
--
"words are alive;
cut them and they bleed."
-ralph waldo emerson
i'm glad you liked it since i have no idea what i was doing with it.
i just sorta wrote and this mess came out. still not sure how i feel about it.
and yes. that's absolutely what i meant. it's fixed. thanks!
But true, broken hearts don't beat. Not unless someone fixes them. But they will still never beat the same way again.
--
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
--
"The one advantage of playing with fire, Lady Caroline, is that one never gets even singed. It is the people who don't know how to play with it who get burned up." - Oscar Wilde
thanks!
and for the favorite.
and what you said is actually very true. i never considered that before.
and that's sad. the idea of our heart never beating the same way is kinda horrible but so very true.
thanks very much, love. and for the favorite
--
don't know what i'd do without it, without this love that we calls ours... beyond here lies nothin, nothin but the moon and the stars. -bob dylan
Previous Page12345...Next Page